


every time i see your face

by cherryfeather



Series: scribere iussit amor [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Comeplay, Cuddling, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fivesome - F/M/M/M/M, I think that's everything, M/M, Mild D/s, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, OT4, OT5, Oral Sex, Orgy, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Spitroasting, Threesome, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:24:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1378876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryfeather/pseuds/cherryfeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That reminds me," he says, and he is definitely blushing now, blushing like she's never seen him blush. "There's--probably something I should tell you."</p><p>He takes a deep breath, staring at the hearthstones, and then swallows, hard. He looks like he's bracing himself for a blow. "When--when we were apart, I, um. I was...with someone else." </p><p>- -</p><p>Constance is, to her own surprise, very not upset. In fact, she has some ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of undoubtedly the filthiest thing I have ever written, but for once I'm actually not ashamed. OT5 forthcoming in part two. Set in an imaginary land post-Sunday's finale, where hopefully everyone is okay and happy but Constance's shitty husband is dead and gone. posting this now before it gets inevitably Jossed. I don't even know, y'all. 
> 
> title from Liz Phair's "Flower":  
> Every time I see your face / I think of things unpure, unchaste...

They sit together on the floor beside the fire in the now-empty house Constance can call her own, with one of d'Artagnan's arms tight around her shoulders. She'd grieved only briefly for her husband, still too raw from the pain he'd caused her, and now she's determined to forget him. She doesn't care if the neighbors talk. She's a respectable widow now, and she can have her young Musketeer if she wants.

D'Artagnan kisses her temple. "What are you thinking about?"

Constance turns to smile up at him. "Just you." 

His eyebrows twitch up in that adorable way he has, and he smiles at her. "Flattering." He leans in to kiss her neck, and Constance sighs, pushing a hand up into his long hair and holding him there.

D'Artagnan makes a wanting little sound that goes straight to the pit of Constance's stomach--but then, to her surprise, he pulls away, sitting back with a faint flush on his cheek. "That reminds me," he says, and he is definitely blushing now, blushing like she's never seen him blush. "There's--probably something I should tell you."

That's never good. Constance resists the urge to bite her lip, folding her hands in her lap. D'Artagnan's hands slip to hers, covering them with his callused, brown fingers, and she feels a little reassured. "All right."

He takes a deep breath, staring at the hearthstones, and then swallows, hard. He looks like he's bracing himself for a blow. "When--when we were apart, I, um. I was...with someone else." 

Constance nods. Her heart feels like it's dropped out of her chest, but she understands. "I see." She can't blame him--she desperately wants to, just yell and scream at him _how could you,_ but she can't blame him, not at all. She'd broken his heart and told him she didn't love him--she'd had no claim on him then, and of course he could have gone and slept with someone else. "I see," she repeats, and goes cold all over when she realizes it must have been Lady de Winter--

"It wasn't her," d'Artagnan blurts out, squeezing her hands, and Constance has never been so glad she has a terrible face for cards in her life. "I swear, Constance, not her, never her, not after you--"

"Oh," she says a little shakily and forces a laugh. "Well, as long as it wasn't her, I don't mind," she says, smiling thinly up at him. It's a brittle attempt at a joke, but he looks reassured by it, nevertheless. "Will you--" She breaks off then, because does she want to know? What if it's someone she knows? She'd hate to have to pass a neighbor in the street every day and want to bury her kitchen knife in their back because they know _her_ d'Artagnan _that_ way.

D'Artagnan swallows again, and his blush is even worse as he clearly works up his courage. His eyes fix on their joined hands, and she can feel his trembling. "It was--that is, I sort of--" He squeezes his eyes shut, then takes a deep breath and says in a rush, "It was Athos."

Constance blinks. All the air seems to have fled from her lungs. "Athos?" she says, well aware her voice is high and squeaky.

D'Artagnan nods, still unable to look her in the eye. "And Aramis."

She blinks again. Opens her mouth. Closes it.

"And--well--Porthos."

"What, all three at once?" Constance snaps sarcastically, jarred into a response, because all three of them, _really?_ How did he have _time?_

But d'Artagnan blushes even deeper, then, and Constance's next sarcastic remark dies on her tongue. After a moment, he nods. 

_Oh._

"You're not joking," she says faintly. Her head is spinning. "You--they actually--"

"They're together," he says, and he's still staring at the floor, like he's waiting for her to be angry, to hit him or throw him out. "The three of them, I mean. I was so upset when--after I left, and they're so good to me, Constance. It just sort of...happened."

Constance stares at their joined hands, but she's not seeing them. She's seeing d'Artagnan surrounded by his friends-- _her_ friends, too, she supposes--all that lean muscle the layers of their uniform only hint at, and maybe Athos is kissing him, maybe those sad eyes Athos always has are a little brighter, and maybe Aramis the consummate lover is stroking his hands over d'Artagnan's narrow torso, and maybe Porthos, gentle, caring Porthos is whispering filthy things in d'Artagnan's ear, and maybe her d'Artagnan is shaking and shivering in between all three of them. 

_They're so good to me,_ he'd said. She knows that's true. They all treat him well, for all that they're always dragging him into one ridiculous scrape after another. They care for him. They respect him. And she knows they care for each other--she's not stupid, she sees the looks, the touches, the way they hold each other up and are never far from each other's side.

"Oh," she says, her voice trembling to her own ears, and d'Artagnan winces.

"Are you angry?" he asks, flicking a worried glance at her.

"Apparently not," Constance says, dimly aware of a roaring sound, a rushing in her ears. She presses her thighs together, and there's heat and slickness there already, just from the thought.

He frowns at her, puzzled by the response, and then he _sees._ He has a brilliant eye for people, her d'Artagnan, and he knows her so well already. He laughs, just once, sounding almost delighted. "Thank God, I was so worried you'd think we were all--all wicked and damned."

"I'm reserving judgment on that," she says with as much dignity as she can muster, and he laughs again. "But for the moment--" She turns to him, sliding closer, and laces her fingers through his, summoning every bit of her courage. She wants this, she's sure she does, but she has no idea how to ask for it, and she should be ashamed for even thinking of it, but-- 

She dips her chin and looks up at him through her eyelashes, because she knows it's devastating, and it works beautifully. Her boy goes bright red, and his eyes go hot and dark.

"Tell me about it," Constance says.

D'Artagnan takes a deep breath, his eyes locked on hers, and then he swipes his tongue over his lips to wet them. He nods slowly, then lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses it once, fervently. "Where would you like me to start?" he asks, and his voice is soft and intimate. 

"Wherever they did." Her heart pounds wildly in her chest, and Constance can't believe she's doing this, can't believe he's telling her. She can't quite believe he _did_ it, for that matter, but on the one hand, she's not sure she's surprised, either.

D'Artagnan nods again, and he leans in close. "I was in my room at the garrison, alone, missing you," he says, nearly whispering, and he presses another kiss to her temple. "And they came in with a bottle of wine to cheer me up." He kisses the edge of her jaw. "We drank the whole thing, and we were all sitting on the floor, because there aren't any chairs in new recruits' rooms."

She giggles, and she feels him smile against her skin. 

"And I was lying pressed up against Aramis," he continues, and slides a little closer so their sides are touching, all the way from shoulder to hip to thigh. Constance sucks in a breath, reaching for his knee, and squeezes it hard. He gives a breathy little laugh in her ear, and she wonders when he got so damn confident. It's beautiful. 

"Who made the first move?" she asks, daring a glance over at him.

He reaches up and tucks one of her curls behind her ear. His smile is soft and loving, edged with heat that reflects into her, all the way to her core. "Aramis, of course," he says, his fingers playing with the ringlet of her hair. "Innuendo is his mother tongue. He put his hand on my hip--" He reaches over and does so, pulling her into the circle of his arm. "And said there was too much love to give in the world to be so sad about one loss."

"That sounds like Aramis," Constance breathes, and she leans back against d'Artagnan's arm, trusting him to hold her up. He does. He always does.

He smiles and nods. "And I was so lonely and sad, Constance," he says, low like a confession, as he reaches up to trace his thumb over her chin. Her heart breaks for him, for what she did to him, and she reaches up to catch his hand, kiss his fingertips. He smiles, brushes his fingers over her lips. "And they were all there, surrounding me, making me feel so safe and loved just by being there."

He leans in, his breath ghosting over her lips, and Constance can't breathe for a moment. "So I kissed him," he whispers, and presses his lips to hers. 

They've kissed before, many times, but this time is different. There's something new, something electric, and she doesn't know if it's the story or if something's unlocked in one or both of them. Whatever it is, it sends a spike of desire straight down through her body, and Constance moans against his lips, shifting against him. 

D'Artagnan makes a sound in response, low in his throat, and reaches down, taking her knee in one hand and tugging her up and over so she's straddling him, her skirts spilling around them on the floor. She's getting soot all over her favorite red dress. She doesn't care in the slightest.

"Constance, it was so good," he gasps against her lips, rocking up against her. "Aramis kisses like he's trying to turn you inside out, and I crawled right into his lap, just like this, I couldn't help it." He strokes his hands up and down her thighs to illustrate his point, and Constance moans again, her hips flexing down against his lap.

"And we kissed for ages, until I remembered Porthos and Athos were there." He breaks off, lowering his head to her shoulder, and she feels his breath coming hot and fast against her chest. She squirms, wanting his mouth there, but wanting the next part of the story more. 

"Did you look around at them?" she asks, and her voice is so breathy and rough she barely recognizes it. "What did their faces look like?"

"They were staring at me," he says, and he looks up, his eyes black and heavy on hers. "Like I was something precious, something beautiful. Athos was leaning against Porthos, and Porthos had his hand on the front of Athos' trousers." He leans in to whisper in her ear, "It made me hot all over, seeing them like that."

"I'll bet," Constance gasps, and kisses him again. She knows how intoxicating it is, being looked at like you're wanted, like you're special. She nearly threw her whole life away because d'Artagnan looked at her like that. She can't imagine how it would be to have three people you admired looking at you with that blazing kind of gaze.

"And Aramis kissed my neck, and I could tell he was looking at them, too." D'Artagnan kisses her neck, high and just under the angle of her jawbone. "And something seemed to go through all three of them, and Porthos rubbed his hand over Athos, just once." He slips his hand to the front of her dress, between her legs, and rubs her, hard, through the layers of her skirts. Constance curses and bucks against him, wanting the friction, the pressure.

He laughs. "Athos did that, too." He keeps stroking at her, the motion dulled through all the fabric, but it's good for right now, it's just what she wants. "And everything sort of happened at once, then."

His arm tightening around her waist is the only warning she gets before he spills her backward onto the floor, crawling over her and pressing her into the floor with his weight. She gasps, wrapping her legs around his, her dress sliding up further with every motion she makes.

"Aramis pushed me back on the floor closer to them," d'Artagnan says, and his breath is coming hard and fast now with the memory. His hips rock down against hers, and Constance can feel him hard against her. "And it all gets a little blurry after that, I have to say. Kissing, touching, stripping bare--" He rears back, clearly trying to master himself, and looks down at her with heavy-lidded eyes. "Do you want to know the next thing I remember clearly?"

She swallows and reaches up for him. He catches her hand and presses a tender, almost sweet kiss to her palm, and she cups her hand against his face. He smiles at her, his eyes crinkling, and a tension Constance didn't know she was carrying loosens in her chest. They're still each other, still themselves, and he still loves her, even in the middle of all this tangled, confused desire and want.

"What's the next thing you remember?" she asks, breathing easier than she had in the next few moments. It's pure pleasure now, no strained worry that he liked that better, because he's here with her and he's telling her everything.

He smiles, and it's devilish. "Sucking Athos' cock."

She gasps once, because it's _filthy,_ and then gasps again, because that would be _gorgeous._ "I always knew you liked him best," she manages to say, reaching up to thread her fingers through his hair the way she bets Athos did. "Did he pull your hair?"

"Put me just where he wanted me," d'Artagnan gasps, and slides down her body. Constance's stomach tenses with wanting, and he obliges her unspoken need, pushing her skirts up obscenely to her waist, leaving her bare and exposed for him. She does what he says, uses her grip on his hair to put him just where _she_ wants him, and she cries out as d'Artagnan presses his mouth to her sex, holding onto her thighs with both hands.

He moans, too, burying his face in her like he's starving. She's already so wet--she felt her skirts getting damp beneath her, and now she can _hear_ it, as he laps at her, and she'd blush with shame if it weren't so good. They both already smell like sex, it's all her fault, and she tightens her fingers in his hair, holding him still as she rocks her hips up.

She looks down her body at him, sees that dark head buried between her legs, and feels another throb of desire when she imagines she's Athos, seeing this same thing, holding him the same way. "Oh, God," she groans, already feeling her thighs start to tremble.

D'Artagnan gasps, lifting his head just enough to breathe, and licks up, hard and fast, around her clit. Constance hardly has a second to catch her breath before she's coming, white-hot shivers erupting up and making her stomach clench, and she curls up off the floor around d'Artagnan, gasping with the force of it.

He's watching her, she realizes when the first shuddering rush passes, his dark eyes completely black and the bottom part of his face shiny and slick, and he smiles wickedly and bends his head back to her. Constance sucks in a breathy moan as the flat of his tongue presses against the sides of her folds, avoiding the places where she'd be painfully sensitive, but still sending little waves of aftershock rippling through her. "Keep talking," she gasps.

"I didn't think he was going to taste so good," d'Artagnan says, his voice hoarse, and his breath against her makes her muscles jump again. "I was so eager I nearly choked myself, trying to get more of him in my mouth."

"You worship him," she breathes, smoothing her fingers through the damp, sweaty strands of his dark hair. "I can just imagine."

He nods, his nose brushing up and down along her slit, and Constance's breath hisses through her teeth. "He's beautiful when he lets himself go," he whispers, and licks into her again. "He threw his head back and closed his eyes, and I couldn't take my eyes off him." He shifts, then, taking one hand off her leg, and Constance sighs when he touches her. She's soaking wet, relaxed from her first orgasm, and he gets two fingers into her easily, moving them slowly in and out, and the slow burn starts in her belly again.

"I could hear Porthos and Aramis behind me," he continues, punctuating every few words with a swipe of his tongue over her. "They were breathing hard, and Aramis couldn't stop swearing. I knew Porthos was doing something to him, I couldn't see, but Porthos kept telling me how gorgeous I was, how beautiful I looked with Athos' cock in my mouth, and if Athos hadn't come first I think I would have, just from the idea that they wanted me, that they thought I was so good."

"Athos came?" Constance asks, her voice high and tight, and she's close again, so close. 

"His hand went tight in my hair and I think he tried to pull me off, he was warning me." D'Artagnan slips a third finger into her and starts moving harder, faster, just the way he knows she likes. "But I wanted it. So I kept going, and I was moaning in my throat; I was such a slut for it, Constance."

She curses, her back bending off the floor, and she's going to come again, she's going to come if he keeps doing that with his hand and keeps saying such gorgeous, filthy, awful things. "Pretty little slut," she whispers, completely shocking herself.

D'Artagnan groans, dropping his head to her hipbone, and his hips buck down against the floor, just once. His voice gets rougher, faster, like the words are just pouring out of him and he can't stop. "And he just gave up, he pushed up into my mouth twice and then came in a flood, and I swallowed every drop of it. And then he said my name, just once, and I came without any of them putting a hand on me--oh, God, _Constance_ \--" He ducks his head and fastens his mouth around her clit and just _sucks,_ his fingers pushing roughly into her, and this time Constance screams when she comes, harder than the last time. It's hot and cold all over, sending pleasure-pain waves of release from her cunt all the way up her body. 

D'Artagnan's gasping when she comes back to herself, and she tugs on his hair, unable to say anything. He scrambles up her body, pushing her dress and corset down to mouth at her breasts, his wet mouth leaving cool trails of moisture along her flushed and heated skin. Constance takes his face in her hands and drags him up to kiss him, openmouthed and panting as she reaches down to unlace his trousers. "Porthos and Aramis," she gasps against his mouth. "What were they doing?"

He shakes his head once, his eyes screwed up tight, as her hand brushes his cock through the thin linen of his smallclothes. He gasps in air and grits out, "When I sat up, Porthos had Aramis on his back and was kissing him--he'd been fingering him open, that was what all the cursing and panting was."

"Oh, God," Constance groans again, shoving d'Artagnan's trousers and smallclothes down to his knees, unable to wait for anything else. "Did he fuck him?"

"So hard I thought Aramis was going to faint," d'Artagnan gasps, and Constance hitches a leg up on his waist. He pushes into her, burning like a brand everywhere she's twitching and sensitive, and she _loves_ it, pushing her hips up against him and crying out her approval. 

"Who came first?" She has to ask, panting and shaking as she is, because it's beautiful in her head, Porthos bending Aramis in half and staring at him like Aramis is a target to hit, and Aramis' gorgeous face twisted up in pleasure and begging for it.

"Aramis," d'Artagnan gasps, his hips driving into hers. "He was nearly crying by the end of it, holding onto Porthos' shoulders with both hands and gasping for air. And then Porthos just went still all over, stretching over him, and--" He kisses her again, no finesse, just desperation, pure and simple, and moans, "Oh, Constance, I wished you were there--"

She comes a third time, her chest locking and her mouth dropping open in a silent scream, and d'Artagnan's hips snap against her and he goes rigid.

They lie like that for a long moment, totally still except for their heaving chests, then d'Artagnan drops his head to her collarbone, licking gently at the sweat that's pooled in the hollow of her throat. "And that was just round one," he whispers, and she feels him smile against her skin.

She laughs breathlessly, dropping her head back onto the cold, hard floor. She strokes his hair, and he nuzzles at her neck. "I love you," she says, and pulls him up so she can kiss him.

He kisses her back, slow and lingering, and when he lifts his head, his eyes are warm, his smile almost lazy. "I love you, too," he says. He rests his forehead against hers, and they share breath for a few moments.

She brushes her nose against his, tracing the long line with the softer edge of hers. "And do you love them, as well?" 

He sighs, but it's not sad or defeated, just accepting. He nods, his lips twisting wryly, and he's bracing himself for another blow again, she can feel.

Constance kisses him again. "I don't mind," she says, and he closes his eyes and drops his head to her breast again, his whole body going slack with relief. 

She drums her fingertips along the bumps and valleys of his spine, then touches his chin with her other hand, tilting his face up until he meets her eyes. "And if that's the case, then there's something I'd like to propose to you."

D'Artagnan's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance tries to remember the pretty little speech she'd written in her head when she was doing the dishes this morning. It had been very good. Oh, shit, what had it _been?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The culmination of Constance's plan. (read: I-literally-don't-even-know-how-many words of straight ot5 porn. I probably should have posted it in multiple chapters? OH WELL.) I feel like I should say, in the aftermath of the finale, that I killed Jacques off without knowing he'd threatened to do it himself. That isn't how it happened in this 'verse, he was just...run over by a carriage or something, killed by the Cardinal for being useless, I DON'T KNOW he's just gone good riddance bye. let's all move on.

"So we ended up splitting the purse and calling it fair," Aramis says, and laughter fills the small, close space of the kitchen. His stories are always just wild enough to strain credulity, but he tells them so well it's impossible not to believe him. Athos has clearly heard this story and just as clearly decided it's embellished, but Porthos is laughing easily with d'Artagnan and Constance.

Constance knows she's laughing a little too loudly as she pours a fresh round of wine for all of them, and surely they notice. No, they can't--they're looking at each other, debating the end of Aramis' story. D'Artagnan certainly notices, though, and he flashes her a look that says plainly _easy, dear._ She bites her lip, returning his look with a nervous grimace. 

He gives her a reassuring smile, and she settles a bit. He tilts his head slightly, the silent question evident-- _do you still want to do this?_

They invited Athos, Porthos, and Aramis over for dinner. It seemed the easiest way to get them all under one roof. Now that they're here, though, Constance is worried her nerves are going to fail her.

But she nods at d'Artagnan, and he smiles wider, his eyes on her warm and full of confidence, and the tight pressure in her chest eases. She does still want this. Very much.

She just has no idea how to ask for it, is all.

"Constance," Athos says, and she looks swiftly up at him. There's something in his voice she hasn't heard before, something intent, and he's looking steadily at her. He's smiling, though, and she's reassured that whatever it is, he isn't angry. His next words make her stomach drop, though. "There's been something on your mind all evening. Would you care to tell us?"

She's not sure whether she's relieved he brought it up first or annoyed that she's so transparent. D'Artagnan's hand slides to cover hers where it rests on the table, squeezing it once in reassurance, and Constance nods. "Yes, actually." She clears her throat, smoothing her bodice, and looks across the table at the three of them. "D'Artagnan...told me about what you all did. Together."

Athos makes a soft _ah_ sound and looks down at his wine glass. Aramis' eyebrows shoot up towards his hair, and Porthos fixes d'Artagnan with a look. "Did he, now."

"I'm not upset," she said quickly, threading her fingers through d'Artagnan's as if to illustrate. "I'm...I'm glad you were there for him, when I couldn't be."

Porthos and Aramis seem to relax, but Athos looks back up, his expression unreadable, and he tilts his head slightly, like she's a puzzle he's trying to solve.

Constance takes a deep breath and plunges on. She's flustered, though, by all their eyes on her, and she feels a blush starting in her neck. "And I don't...object," she says, trying to remember the pretty little speech she'd written in her head when she was doing the dishes this morning. It had been very good. Oh, shit, what had it _been?_

Aramis saves her. He laughs aloud, and everyone turns to look at him. Athos and Porthos are glaring daggers at him, but he ignores them, tilting his chair back onto two legs and grinning at her. His dark eyes are sparkling, wicked, and Constance feels a surge of unexpected relief. "Constance, you vixen," he says, in a tone of unmistakable admiration, "this is a seduction."

Well, she supposes, you can't say it plainer than that.

She smiles across the table at him, blushing properly now, but relieved to have it all out in the open. "Well--yes." Aramis beams at her, and Porthos and Athos look slightly stunned, but no one's gotten up and fled yet, so she's still hoping for the best. She glances sideways at d'Artagnan to find him grinning at her, and she grins back, squeezing his hand slightly before looking back at Aramis. "You've had my boy, so I want to have both of yours."

Athos chokes on his wine, and Porthos laughs out loud. Aramis puts a hand on Athos' shoulder, but his eyes haven't left Constance's. She hadn't counted on how comforting it would be to have Aramis here, Aramis who's arranged a thousand assignations and knows every way people can fit together. Aramis smiles at her, and he tilts his head, considering, then lets his chair fall back onto all four legs. He glances between Porthos and Athos, then back at Constance. "Very interesting proposition, my dear."

"All of us?" Porthos asks, looking around the table. "All five of us, you mean?" Constance nods, and Porthos blows out a breath. He settles back in his chair, glances once at Aramis, then grins, nodding. "Sounds fun."

Aramis is looking at Athos, though, Athos who's staring into his wine glass, blinking steadily, and Aramis glances back up at Constance. "Give us a moment," he says, then rises gracefully and puts a hand on Athos' shoulder. Athos looks up, startled from a reverie, then nods to whatever he sees in Aramis' face, rising and following Aramis and Porthos into the hall. He glances back at d'Artagnan and Constance just once before half-closing the door behind them.

D'Artagnan lets out his breath explosively, and he puts an arm around Constance's shoulders. She laughs a little weakly, turning into him, and he kisses her, just once, soft and reassuring. "That went better than expected," he says, grinning at her.

"Thank God for Aramis," she sighs. She plucks at his shirt collar, a nervous little gesture, and flicks a worried glance to the hall. She can hear their low voices murmuring, and she bites her lip. Athos had been the wild card. They'd been reasonably sure about Aramis and Porthos' interest, but neither she nor d'Artagnan had been sure about Athos. Constance knows not to take it personally. It's about his wife, not about her. But all the same, yet another place for her to come up against Lady de Winter and fall short, she thinks not a little bitterly.

D'Artagnan kisses her brow between her eyes, the place where she can feel the worry lines forming, and she relaxes, smiling up at him. He always knows. He frames her face with his hands, and his smile's reassuring. "We asked," he says simply, shrugging. "If they say no, they say no. It won't be personal. And we'll still have each other."

She grins, smoothing her hands against his shirt. "And your stories."

He grins back, his smile turning a little heated. "And my stories," he agrees, and kisses her. She makes a little sound, pushing up against him, and he kisses her harder, opening his mouth and sliding his tongue against hers when she winds her hands through his hair. 

"Now that's what I like to see on a tryst," Aramis says, and they both jump, breaking apart and looking up. The other Musketeers have returned, Athos in the lead and Aramis and Porthos flanking him. They're all smiling, and Constance feels a surge of relief, followed closely by a flood of heat. 

"I'm assuming," Athos says, and he would look as calm and collected as ever if there weren't a telltale flush mounting under his collar, "that as d'Artagnan has enthusiastically had everyone in this room multiple times, he has no objections?"

D'Artagnan grins up at him, looking disgustingly excited. "None whatsoever."

Aramis and Porthos grin at each other behind Athos' back, and Athos looks at Constance, finally. His blue eyes are blazing in a way Constance has never seen before, and he inclines his head to her, never once breaking her gaze. "Then we accept."

She beams at him, excitement and desire rushing through her. "Good." She stands up, as gracefully as she can manage when every limb in her body is trembling with anticipation, and she smooths her skirt again, coming around the table to them. Athos extends a hand, the picture of the courtly gentleman, and Constance blushes as she lays her hand in his. "Upstairs," she says, and leads him out, the others following behind.

She and d'Artagnan have done some redecorating, scrapping her marital bed for something newer, better (and she'd feel guilt about that, if only--well--no, actually, she doesn't, not at all), but some part of her had forgotten just how _tall_ the rest of them were, and when they enter the bedroom, she quails a little in dismay. There is _no_ way five people will fit in that bed. Any of the beds.

"It's a good start," Aramis says, again saving them all, and he motions to Porthos, the two of them moving towards the mattress. "Constance, if you'd be so lovely as to maybe fetch a pitcher of water, since this will be thirsty work, and let us do some rearranging?"

She does, grateful for something that's familiar, because for all that she does, desperately, want this, it's _nerve-wracking,_ and she's still terrified she's going to lose her courage at any second and just throw them all out. 

As she's about to leave the kitchen, carrying the water and a bottle of wine, her eyes fall on the bottle of oil in her spice rack. Her mind flashes back, very clearly, to d'Artagnan's first story he'd told her, and Constance remembers there was something she _definitely_ wanted to see. 

She takes the oil upstairs, too.

When she opens the door to her bedroom, she laughs in approval. They've taken the mattress from her bed and set it on the floor, and what seems to be the mattress from the beds in d'Artagnan's old room and the spare, too, covering them all with sheets so the seams aren't too obvious. They've also strewn them with what looks like every pillow and cushion in the house. They'll all fit with room to spare, and the four men stand around it, examining their handiwork. 

"Very Roman," Athos says dryly.

"Fitting, then, for an orgy," Aramis says, grinning like the devil, and he turns to Constance. "Just set it wherever," he says, meaning the water and wine, but then his eyes fall on the bottle of oil. 

"Someone's planning ahead," Porthos says with a grin, noticing it, too. "Eh, Aramis?"

Aramis doesn't say anything, his eyes locked on the bottle of oil and a flush rising in his cheeks. Constance bites her lip, afraid that she's made him uncomfortable, presumed too much, but then Aramis' eyes dart up to hers, and there is no mistaking the clear desire on his face. "Very good," he murmurs, and steps forward to take the items from her hands. He passes them back to Athos and Porthos, who set them carefully around the bed they've made on the floor.

For his part, Aramis steps closer, taking her hands in his and looking at her very seriously. He takes a deep breath, clearly mastering himself. "There's only one rule that we'll have to insist on before we get underway," he says, "while everyone still has their heads on straight."

She nods, her throat tight. They'd expected this, she and D'Artagnan; they'd discussed it. "Right. Naturally."

He smiles at her. "We've already established this amongst ourselves, so this is for you. Anything we do that you don't like, you tell us immediately and we stop. Even if we all seem caught up in the moment; even if it's something we're doing to each other. This is supposed to be a pleasant experience for everyone." 

Warmth rushes through her, and she smiles up at him. "Of course," she says, squeezing his hands. "Thank you." She's much less nervous, suddenly, knowing that she hasn't got herself in over her head--she always knew she could trust them, but hearing the words aloud means so, so much. 

Aramis grins back, his smile relaxing into something hotter, and he flashes a look over his shoulder at d'Artagnan. "You too, whelp. I know we told you the first time, but it bears repeating."

D'Artagnan sits down on the pile of cushions--the bed, she just needs to think of it as the bed, because that is _clearly_ what it is--and he grins cheekily up at Aramis. "We've already established there's nothing you can do to me that I won't like."

Constance laughs, and he winks at her. He looks so alive, so excited, and just the sight of it is stoking the fire within herself. Laughter. Desire. This is how it should always be, she thinks, with sex and pleasure. This is exactly what she'd hoped for.

"Cheeky," Porthos says, arching an eyebrow at d'Artagnan and flashing a grin at Athos.

"I agree," Athos says. "Do we need to muzzle you?" he says to d'Artagnan, perfectly pleasantly, and a hot flush stains d'Artagnan's cheeks. The expression he shoots up at Athos, though, is anything but embarrassed. Porthos laughs from where he leans against the side table, clearly remembering as well as Constance does exactly the way they'd _muzzled_ d'Artagnan the last time.

"We can discuss that," Constance says, and Aramis laughs and steps in towards her, his hands coming up to rest on her shoulders.

"May I?" he asks, his voice dropping low, and Constance leans into him, suddenly breathless. She nods, and Aramis ducks his head and kisses her. 

It's chaste for all of a half-second before she licks across the seam of his lips, and Aramis makes a sound low in his throat, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers and coaxing a moan from her. D'Artagnan described it perfectly--Aramis kisses like he's trying to turn her inside out, hot and wet and every motion precisely calculated to figure out what she likes, what gets her going. Constance is so turned on by the realization that _this is happening, this is really happening_ that _everything_ is getting her going right now, and Aramis' hands slide to her waist, pressing her to him. Her breasts are trapped in her corset, but even so, she can feel the sturdiness of his chest against her, and she moans, rubbing herself against him.

Aramis breaks away with a gasp and rests his forehead against hers. "And away we go," he breathes, his lips curving into a smile, and Constance laughs, stretching up to brush her lips across his again. 

She looks around at the others, feeling a little self-conscious, suddenly, but all she finds are three pairs of eyes on them and three identical expressions of want. D'Artagnan is gazing steadily at the two of them, and he gives her a little nod, smiling, when she looks at him. "You're beautiful together," he says, his usually light voice rough and low. Athos nods once, his eyes dark and intense, and Porthos is smiling, his grin full of heat.

"Too many clothes on," Constance says to Aramis then, reaching up to push his jacket from his shoulders. "Take this off."

"Yes, madame," he says, a little breathlessly, and scrambles to pull it off.

"He likes being told what to do," Porthos says almost casually to her. "And he'll let you know it, too, once we really get going."

Aramis laughs, flashing Porthos a warm look. "Allow me _some_ of my secrets, darling."

"It's not a secret," Athos says, one corner of his mouth twitching up. D'Artagnan laughs from the bed, and when Constance glances at him, she realizes d'Artagnan's stripped off his jacket, shirt and boots already, lying perfectly shamelessly on the bedclothes in just his trousers.

"Cheeky," she says to him, echoing Porthos' earlier words, and he grins at her. 

"But he has a good idea," Porthos says, and reaches up to unbutton his heavy studded jacket. He winks at Constance when he catches her eyes on him, and he crooks a finger at Aramis. "Over here, you."

Aramis goes willingly, moving into Porthos' arms with a murmur of happiness, and Porthos takes Aramis' face in his hands and kisses him. It's sweet, almost, the way he tilts Aramis' face up to him, but it gives Constance a good look at the way they're kissing and there is nothing sweet about that at all. She presses a hand to her chest, enjoying the hot rush that courses through her as Porthos kisses Aramis in slow, deep motions. Aramis' eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he moans, and he finishes unbuttoning Porthos' heavy jacket for him. He pushes at the open edges, and Porthos only releases his face for as long as it takes for them to get his jacket off. That barrier removed, he cups Aramis' face again and hauls him closer, and Constance has never seen both of them in just their shirtsleeves before. Their broadness of shoulder, the solidity of their muscles, is suddenly that much more apparent, and she sighs in appreciation of the sight.

"Nice, isn't it?" d'Artagnan asks her, and she grins at him, catching her bottom lip between her teeth and nodding.

"They make a lovely picture," Athos agrees. He's still fully dressed, and he moves, then, towards Constance, still looking perfectly in control of the situation. She envies him a bit--she's already feeling completely undone. Athos smiles, that intent, blazing look back in his eyes, and he steps closer. "May I?" he asks, motioning to her corset, and Constance sucks in a breath, startled that he would ask. There's a set to his jaw, almost, as he reaches out his hand, that would make her think he's reaching into fire, and Constance takes his hand, pressing it with both of hers.

"Are you sure?" she asks, worried that he's forcing himself for her sake. She doesn't mind, honestly, if he needs to keep a little distance from her.

But he smiles, his eyes softening slightly at the edges. "I wouldn't have asked if I weren't," he assures her quietly, and Constance wonders if he needs this, too--a reminder, maybe, that it was just one person who hurt him, not a whole gender, not something that he needs to carry around for the rest of his life.

She squeezes his hand and draws it around behind her, to the lacing of her corset, and Athos inclines his head in thanks and steps to her back.

Aramis and Porthos are still kissing, working on the ties of each other's shirts, and as she feels Athos' fingers trace down the boning on either side of her laces, Constance feels her eyes drawn to d'Artagnan's.

He's biting his lip, his eyes hot on her and Athos, and she knows how attracted he is to the man, how much d'Artagnan admires him. She wonders how good it must look to him, the two people he cares about most close like this. She sighs, a little (not entirely an act, she has to admit) and leans back into Athos' touch, and d'Artagnan's face goes open and wanting. 

Athos huffs a faint sound of amusement behind her, and then his fingers are moving sure and steady on the laces of her corset, untying the knot and gently pulling the slack out. He knows how to take it off properly, the way she's had to teach d'Artagnan to so she doesn't have to relace it each time, and there's a studied slowness to Athos' movements. Every time a new centimeter of her chemise is revealed, Athos traces lightly over it with a finger, and Constance is flushed, shaking with need by the time he unties the straps on her shoulders and helps her slip it off. His fingers slip into the ties of her skirts, and he looses those too, pushing them down her waist and steadying her to step out of them. She's left in her red under-dress, and Athos' hands wander across the bared planes of her shoulders before turning her gently in his arms.

The deep blue of his eyes washes over her, and Constance stretches up to kiss him. Athos sucks in a breath through his nose, his hands high on either side of her ribs, smoothing away the indentations from her corset, and he returns her kiss with a barely-restrained passion that's somehow even more intoxicating than everything that's come before.

She reaches back to cover his hands with her own, then very firmly moves them forward so he's cupping her breasts through her dress. Athos nearly growls, biting at her bottom lip as his thumbs trace over the rapidly hardening points of her nipples, and Constance gasps into his mouth, rocking into his touch.

Athos breaks their kiss with what looks like supreme force of will, though his hands keep moving on her breasts. He glances over her shoulder and smirks, an expression _so_ attractive she nearly has to kiss it off his face, and she turns her head to see what's making him look so smugly pleased.

Porthos and Aramis are watching with appreciation, Aramis standing in the circle of Porthos' arms and leaning back against Porthos' broad chest, both of their shirts discarded, but it's d'Artagnan that's caught Athos' attention. D'Artagnan's propping himself up on one arm, staring openmouthed up at them, and he's hard in his breeches, she can see. He's got one hand clenched in the bedclothes, the other tight on his thigh to stop himself from getting a hand on his cock, and Constance laughs. "Like what you're seeing, sweetheart?" she asks breathlessly, turning in Athos' arms so her back is pressed to his front, so d'Artagnan can see what he's doing to her. D'Artagnan makes a soft, needy sound, staring up at them like he's looking at something holy, and _God,_ it feels incredible. She remembers vividly what he'd said, about how Porthos and Athos watching him kiss Aramis had made him hot all over, and that's exactly how she feels now, with all their eyes on her, with him looking at her that way.

Athos presses a kiss to the side of her neck, and she knows he's holding d'Artagnan's gaze as he strokes her breasts. Constance sighs, dropping her head back against Athos' shoulder and pushing her chest up into his hands, and he nuzzles at the line of her throat. His fingers dance up to the edge of her neckline, toying with it. "May I?" he asks again, his voice twice as rough this time, and he tugs it down just a hint.

Constance bites her lip, feeling a rush of twisting heat curl in her stomach at the thought of being exposed like that to their eyes, all of them. It feels like it might be too much, and yet--and yet-- _Oh, to hell with it,_ she thinks, and nods. "Yes," she gasps, and Athos slides her sleeves down her arms, tugging at the neckline of her dress until it pools at her waist and her torso is bared to the chill of the room.

Aramis hums an approving sound, his eyes hot on her, and Porthos rests his chin on Aramis' shoulder, watching intently. Her nipples tighten further under the cool air, under their scrutiny, just for a moment before Athos' warm hands return, swordsman's calluses brushing rough over her over-sensitized skin. She gasps as his mouth lands on the place where her neck and shoulder meet, pressing a hot and openmouthed kiss there, and d'Artagnan groans, stretching up towards them. 

"One or both of you, come down here, please," he says, his voice tight with need, and Constance pulls away slightly to glance at Athos. He arches one eyebrow at her, clearly ready to defer to her wishes.

"You," she says, surprising herself, and Athos smiles. He takes her hand and kisses it, his mouth tracing warm and wet over her knuckles, before walking backward toward the bed, his eyes never leaving hers until d'Artagnan reaches up to take his other hand.

"Athos," d'Artagnan begs, straining up towards him, and Athos drops to his knees and catches d'Artagnan in a kiss in one smooth motion. D'Artagnan moans loudly, falling back and letting Athos' body bear him down to the mattress, and Athos goes willingly, thrusting a leg between d'Artagnan's and giving their boy something to grind against. Athos is still fully dressed, and it's deliciously scandalous to watch d'Artagnan writhe half-naked against Athos' leathers. D'Artagnan's head falls back as Athos scatters biting kisses across his collarbone, and he looks up at Constance with hazy dark eyes.

"I told you," she tells him, crossing her arms under her breasts and smiling at him. She feels curiously powerful in her half-nudity, and she's going to enjoy it until her good sense comes back. "You do make a pretty little slut."

Athos groans against d'Artagnan's breastbone, and d'Artagnan swears, his hips rocking up against Athos uncontrollably. 

"Oh, he likes that," Porthos says appreciatively, and Constance looks over to see him and Aramis avidly watching the scene on the bed. "We realized he liked a little talk, but not quite that much." He flashes her a look, a quick _can I?,_ and Constance nods, touched by the fact that he'd asked. Porthos grin settles into something wicked and hot, and his hips grind almost nonchalantly against Aramis' backside as he looks back at d'Artagnan. "Though I supposed we hadn't realized what a proper slut he was last time, either."

D'Artagnan whines again, and she sees that Athos has slipped a hand between them, working at the fastenings of d'Artagnan's breeches. Athos glances up at her for confirmation, and Constance nods again, enjoying the heady feeling of being in charge, of having all four of these soldiers bowing to her command.

"So he told you everything, did he, Constance?" Porthos says, and they could be discussing the weather for how casual his voice sounds.

"He did," she says, watching intently as Athos shoves d'Artagnan's trousers down his hips and gets a hand around his hard and leaking cock. It's a beautiful sight, and she'd worry about things being over too soon if she didn't already know just how many times her boy could get it up in a night (one of the few good things about how young d'Artagnan is, sometimes). "Oh," she sighs, and presses a hand to one of her breasts, skimming her palm over the peak, just needing the littlest edge of stimulation as she watches. 

"Oh, Constance, how cruel of us to neglect you," Aramis says, his voice lower and silkier than she's ever heard it, and he holds out his arms to her. "You'll get a better view from over here, anyway."

She laughs and moves into their space, and Aramis holds her around the waist with one arm as he strokes up over her breast with the other. Porthos encircles them both, watching Athos and d'Artagnan over their heads as one of his heavy hands rests hot on Constance's bare waist. Porthos presses a kiss to her hair almost absently. "Did he tell you about choking himself on Athos' cock and coming without a hand on him?"

D'Artagnan makes another high, breathless noise, and she can see how much he likes this, having them all watch him and talk about how brazen he is. He's harder, more wound up than she's ever seen him, in Athos' hands and under their gaze. She hadn't realized there could be so much pleasure in this, too, in being seen, in playful touches and filthy words and just _watching._

"That was my favorite part," she says, leaning against Aramis and feeling his breath hot on her neck. "I had his head between my legs as he was telling me. Pretended I was you, Athos."

"I'm sure you enjoyed having him there as much as I did," Athos says, his face intent on d'Artagnan squirming underneath him. "Were you as gentle as I tried to be?" He certainly doesn't look gentle now, from the way d'Artagnan's cursing and bucking underneath him.

"Not really," she says. "He had to make me come twice before I let him up."

Athos flashes her a look of pure admiration, and d'Artagnan moans aloud, jerking underneath him. Athos pins him almost casually with his other forearm tight against d'Artagnan's collarbone. "Easy," he says almost teasingly, and d'Artagnan growls at him, driving his hips up.

"He's a rude little harlot, too," Porthos says almost clinically. "Doesn't know when to shut up and thank someone for giving him a good fuck."

The effect on their boy is _beautiful,_ every bone in his body shaking under Porthos' words, and d'Artagnan thrashes against Athos' arm. "Constance, please," he gasps.

She genuinely doesn't understand what he's asking for--does he want her down there? Does he want her to make them stop teasing?--but Aramis chuckles against her hair and she thinks she has an idea how to respond. "Please what, sweetheart?" she asks in her most honeyed tone.

"Oh, you're wonderful," Porthos murmurs, and she can feel his smile when his lips brush her ear.

And d'Artagnan _keens,_ throwing his head back and shuddering bodily, his teeth tearing his bottom lip to shreds. "Constance, _please_ can I come?"

A throb of heady pleasure hits her straight in the pit of her stomach, and Constance moans, feeling drunk, suddenly, with all the power he's just given her. She covers Aramis' hand on her breast with one of her own, pressing hard, and Aramis takes the hint and tightens his grip. "I don't know," she says, drawing it out, and d'Artagnan lets out a dry sob of want. "What do you think, Aramis?"

"He's been good," Aramis says fairly. "He's waited to have all four of us for so long."

"That's true," Constance says, pretending to consider it. Her breath is coming hard and hot in her throat at the sight of d'Artagnan shaking under Athos, and Athos slows his strokes, waiting for Constance's say-so. "Porthos?"

"I'm always for delayed gratification," Porthos says, his deep voice low and amused. "I don't think he's worked for it enough yet, myself."

Athos bends down to rub the roughness of his stubble against d'Artagnan's smooth cheek, and d'Artagnan whimpers, arching up into him. "But he's so pretty when he does come," Athos says, only now starting to sound a little breathless.

Another pulse of desire spreads through her, and Constance leans back against Aramis and Porthos, biting off another moan. "Always making the good point," she says with a smile. "That's why they put you in charge, Athos. D'Artagnan?"

His eyes are screwed up tightly, his face a picture of agonized pleasure. "Yes, Constance?" he pants.

"You can come as soon as Athos makes you." 

Athos tightens his hand, pumping one long, twisting slide up d'Artagnan's cock, and he bites down, hard, on their boy's shoulder. D'Artagnan comes with a choked-off scream, shuddering convulsively against Athos as he paints his own stomach with ropes of white.

"Beautiful," Aramis whispers, and Constance has to agree. She's never seen him come from this angle, been able to appreciate all the shivering lines of his body and the way his back curves in a perfect arch. His handsome face is exquisitely open, his jaw dropping slack for one gorgeous moment before he falls back to the bed, flushed and panting.

Athos moves the arm he'd been pinning him with and almost gently cups d'Artagnan's cheek. He bends down to kiss him, and d'Artagnan makes a soft sound, reaching up to touch Athos with reverent hands. He's always a little loose-limbed and awkward after he comes, and Athos indulges his fumbling touches, letting d'Artagnan's fingers stroke over his face and hair. He pulls back slightly when the kiss breaks, and then, to Constance's utter shock, brings up the hand he'd used to stroke d'Artagnan off and holds it between their faces. D'Artagnan's come glistens on his fingers.

"Do you want to?" he murmurs quietly, his eyes intent on d'Artagnan's.

D'Artagnan exhales softly, looking sex-drunk and beautiful with it, and he nods, reaching up and pulling Athos' hand to his mouth.

Constance lets out a groan of pure lust as d'Artagnan licks his own come off of Athos' hand, and Porthos and Aramis' hands tighten on her. She has no idea why that little act of submission is so attractive, so sexual, but it _is_ and it's driving her _mad._ D'Artagnan's eyes flick to them, his lips curling slightly in amusement, and he turns it into a show, the little bastard, sucking obscenely on Athos' fingers and making tiny noises of pleasure.

"Show-off," Constance hisses at him, unbearably aroused, and he winks at her, definitely smiling around Athos' fingers now.

"Clearly not even a muzzle will work," Athos says, his voice thick with desire as he watches d'Artagnan fellate his hand.

D'Artagnan pulls off with a lewd pop and grins up at them all. "You love me shameless," he says with a disgusting amount of confidence, then reaches up to Aramis, Porthos, and Constance. "Why on Earth are you three still standing all the way over there?"

"Good question," Aramis says brightly, and takes two steps and falls on the bed beside d'Artagnan, who pounces on him like a playful kitten. Aramis wraps his arms around him, kissing him thoroughly, then the two of them twist to look up at Porthos and Constance with identical beseeching looks.

"Pair of greedy sluts, the both of you," Porthos says, and Constance laughs, turning to look up at him. He glances down, his eyebrows arching politely. "Yes?"

"I haven't had a kiss from you, yet," she says, spreading her palms flat on his abdomen and feeling the ridges of his muscle flex under her hands. "I want one."

Porthos grins down at her. "Oh, I do love a woman who knows what she wants," he murmurs. He takes her face in his hands the way he'd held Aramis, before, then leans down and seals his mouth across hers. She sighs and melts against him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, because Porthos kisses like it's the sole focus of his world, and Constance could drown in it. She'd been a little unsure of how she and Porthos would balance each other. She's known Athos a long time, and she has a bantering rapport with Aramis, but Porthos is always so quiet. She knows him well, she cares about him, she would trust him with her life--she just wasn't sure of how they'd fit. But now, after what just happened, the way they'd both used their words to drive d'Artagnan half-mad, she feels more comfortable with him than almost anyone. They like the same things, she and him, and if Porthos isn't going to feel guilty or ashamed for it, then she certainly isn't going to, either. 

He must feel her relax against him, because he pulls away slightly, nudging his nose against hers. "See how easy it is?" he whispers, and she smiles against his lips. He grins back, dropping his hands low on her waist, and tightens his grip. "Can I?" he asks, and she feels his shoulders bunch slightly under her hands. 

She beams, _loving_ that they keep asking her that, and nods. "Please," she says, and Porthos grins and just picks her up, like it's the easiest thing in the world. Constance throws back her head and laughs, wrapping her legs around his waist, and kissing him again. His hands drop to her thighs so he can hold her better, and he's touching her bare skin because her skirts are riding up, and she laughs again, because it feels so _good_ to be held up and kissed. She rolls her hips against him, just testing the waters, and gives a little _oh_ of surprise when she feels him. "That was more than I was expecting," she laughs, feeling a little lightheaded.

"You never get used to it," Aramis sighs dreamily, and she feels Porthos' laugh rumble through his whole body.

"I just use what God gave me," he says, winking at her, and walks them toward the bed. He carries her like she's nothing, and Constance sighs happily, pressing her hips against him experimentally again. Porthos gives a little growl of approval, his fingers flexing against the meat of her thighs, and Constance squirms in his grip, catching her bottom lip between her teeth and giving him a warm, appraising look. 

Porthos shifts his grip, then, holding her to him with just one arm underneath her thighs. In a display of utterly perfect coordination and muscle control, he drops to sit on the mattress without jarring her in the slightest, and Constance finds herself sitting in his lap. "I'm impressed," she says, sliding her hands up into his short curls.

Porthos flashes her that lopsided smile. "Everything about me's impressive," he jokes, his hands playing with the material of her skirt, bunched up around her waist. "Do you want me to just--"

"God, yes, get it _off,"_ she growls, raising up off him slightly so he can pull the thin dress up over her head, and then she's naked in his lap but for the ribbons in her hair.

Something in her should be shocked or ashamed, she thinks--naked, in bed with four men she's not married to, all of them still at least wearing something--but she's not. She's not the same woman she used to be, and their desire for her is making her heart fly.

Porthos' hands roam up and down her sides, and she's almost afraid to meet his eyes. But when she does, he's looking at her with nothing but appreciation and open, honest desire. "You really are something, Constance," he murmurs.

She blushes, ducking her head slightly. It's _that_ , of all things, that can make her blush right now. "I'm just me," she says, resting her forehead against his.

"Hey." Porthos takes her face in his hands again, tilting her head up so she looks him in the eye. "There's nothin' _just_ about you." And he hauls her close against his chest and kisses her deeply.

Constance loses herself to his kiss. Being admired, being wanted... She's almost forgotten how it feels. D'Artagnan brought that part of her back to life, and now the other three are feeding it like tinder to flame.

She leans back then, hoping he'll take her meaning, and Porthos does, gently tipping her back and following her down the way Athos had done to d'Artagnan. Porthos braces himself over her with one hand, the other stroking down her chest, down her side, over her hip and thigh. She pushes herself up against him in waves, following the motion of his hand, and she sighs, resting her head back in the pillows and just moving, just _feeling._

Porthos chuckles, then, and she opens her eyes, looking up at him. "What?"

He's not looking at her, though; he's looking above her, presumably at where the others are sitting watching, and he grins down at her. "Your adoring public would like to join us, I think."

Constance stretches luxuriously against the mattresses and grins back at him, catching her bottom lip in her teeth. "Well," she mock-sighs, reaching up and tweaking his beard, "I _suppose."_ She loves this.

Porthos winks at her and adjusts her position on the bed, taking her legs and turning her slightly so she's lying crosswise, corner to corner, on the sprawling bed they've made. Then he looks up and smiles. "Join me, gents?"

Constance looks over, and a stab of pure arousal knifes through her body. Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan lie together in a pile on the opposite corner of the bed, and they're all watching, identical expressions of desire on their faces. Athos and Aramis look hungry, their eyes raking over her body as they see her for the first time, but D'Artagnan, between them, with his hand tangled in Aramis' and his head resting on Athos' chest, is smiling at her, his gaze hot and familiar.

She pushes herself up on one elbow and reaches out, because suddenly she realizes--she hasn't kissed her boy since this started. "D'Artagnan?"

His smile's swift and lovely, and he crawls across the sheets to her in an instant. When he kisses her, kneeling beside her, Constance stretches up to him and sighs. He tastes a little like Athos, like Aramis, but still himself, and the press of his lips is familiar, the way he licks into her mouth, the way he holds her face. She hadn't known she needed this until now, just this grounding touch, and she sighs again, happy they did this, together.

"I love you," he murmurs against her lips, and she smiles. 

"You, too," she says, stroking his cheekbones, and kisses him again. She tilts her head slightly, looking at Athos and Aramis. "Well? What are you two waiting for?"

Athos ducks his head and smiles--his equivalent of a laugh--and Aramis actually does laugh. They share a look, then, and then glance over to Porthos. Some silent communication passes between the three of them, then Athos and Aramis move as one. D'Artagnan slides smoothly out of their way, curling around Constance's head, and bends to kiss her again.

Constance gasps against him when she feels Athos and Aramis' mouths on her, then again when Porthos joins them. She has to look down, just because she wants to see this, she never wants to forget how it looks--the three greatest Musketeers in France, worshiping her with hands and lips and--"oh, _God,"_ she yelps out when Athos closes his mouth around the peak of her breast-- _teeth._

"That was a good sound," d'Artagnan assures them when their eyes dart up. "Right, love?" He's grinning, she can _hear_ the laughter in his voice, and she gasps out a breathless laugh, too, and nods.

"Very good," she says, reaching down to press her hand to Athos' hair. "Very, _very,_ good." Porthos repeats Athos' motion on her other breast, and Constance's breath hitches in her chest. She writhes under their attentions, more turned on than she'd ever thought possible, and where her thighs press together she can feel her own slickness. She whines a little, she can't help it, clenching her legs together to try and get some kind of friction.

Aramis notices. Of course he does. "Constance," he murmurs against the dip in her stomach, "would you mind terribly if I--"

She lets go of Athos and pushes Aramis' head down with both hands, and everyone laughs, their breath warm against her skin.

Aramis lets out a little groan of anticipation as he slides down her body, kissing along her abdomen and the tops of her thighs as she does. "Oh, it's been so long since I've done this," he sighs, settling between her legs. "I do love it."

Constance hiccups out a little sob of want when Aramis' breath brushes hot and warm against her sex. "Oh, please, Aramis," she gasps, one hand reaching up for d'Artagnan to ground herself even as the other slides through Aramis' messy hair. Her chest twists back and forth against Athos and Porthos, neither of them stopping their attentions for a moment, and she can barely breathe for excitement as Aramis spreads her thighs with his sword-callused hands.

She tugs on his hair a little, a nervous twitch in her arm more than any kind of command, but Aramis lets out another raw sound and bends his head to her at once. He licks once, his tongue flexing and wet against her cunt, and Constance cries out, her hips jerking. She hadn't realized until now, until she was the center of attention, how strung-out she feels, how much she _needs_ to be touched there, and she's gasping and shaking already as Aramis settles in.

"Oh, oh, oh," she whispers in a steady stream as Aramis swirls his tongue around her folds, practiced and elegant, and she'd thought he'd be a little sloppy with how much he clearly wanted it--but Aramis is not that kind of lover, apparently; he's focused wholly on her, even when his hips flex down occasionally against the mattress. He's totally precise and completely merciless. He winds her up with his tongue, and then he barely has to brush his lips against her clit and she's coming, crying up into d'Artagnan's mouth and shaking under Athos and Porthos. It's harder than she usually comes at first, more white-out and less of a steady wave, and she's gasping for breath as Aramis barely slows down, coaxing her through the shivering with the flat of his tongue pressed against her.

He glances up, silently inquiring-- _too much? should I stop?_ \--and Constance doesn't have words to answer, hopes the way she rocks her hips up against him is enough.

D'Artagnan saves her. "She can take it. Keep going," he tells Aramis, sounding breathless himself, and she realizes he's never seen her come from this angle, either. "Harder this time. Use your fingers."

Constance presses her face into his leg in silent thanks, nodding fervently until Aramis grins against her and dives back in, more forcefully this time. She cries out, because _fuck,_ she loves it, and Athos and Porthos feel like they're everywhere, their hands stroking across the planes of her torso and stomach, mouths nibbling and pressing against the peaks and undersides of her breasts, and she laughs breathlessly when their cheeks touch and they break away from her for a moment to kiss over her chest.

Aramis slips his fingers into her then, two long fingers callused with sword and musket use, and Constance hisses out a shaky breath, her whole world narrowing to the almost painfully intense heat in her cunt. "Yes," she gasps, and Aramis smiles against her again. He twists his hand in her, palm up, then curls his fingers in a way d'Artagnan's never done. His fingertips brush up against-- _someplace,_ she has no idea, but it steals all the breath from her and makes all her muscles clench around him. She makes a high, needy sound, the only noise she can make, and Aramis does it again, and again, flattening his tongue against her clit and just rocking his head back and forth as he slowly drags his fingers across that spot.

Faster than she ever would have thought it could happen again, Constance's chest locks and everything in her body floods hot and shakes. She's never come like this, it feels totally different, and she's barely realized she's _coming_ before Aramis closes his mouth around her clit and sucks and she's coming _again._ It never seems to stop, waves beating at her like she's tossed in a storm, and she sobs, completely overwhelmed by it.

She only realizes she's crying when d'Artagnan's hands smooth gently across her face, and he's saying her name, sounding worried. She opens her eyes, not sure when they closed, and she sees Athos and Porthos holding her, stroking gently across her sides, and Aramis with his head pillowed on her thigh, one hand tracing across her hip in a steady, grounding touch. They all look concerned, Athos and Porthos almost afraid, and Aramis looks a little guilty.

"I hadn't realized it would be so intense for you," he says, his voice hoarse, and his beard's glistening with her own wetness. It's very distracting.

"Don't you dare apologize," she gasps. Her throat feels raw, and she wonders if she was screaming. She sighs, relaxing down against the bed, and reaches up for d'Artagnan's hand. She looks up at him, her vision still slightly hazy, and he looks reassured when she smiles. "You," she tells him, "need to learn how to do that."

They all laugh, the worry easing from their faces, and Athos presses an almost tender kiss to her collarbone. "I think," he says, his voice carrying a hint of his battlefield authority, "that the lady might need a small rest."

Constance would love to disagree, but her sex is still twitching in aftershocks, and she thinks she might be too sensitive to enjoy anything right now. She nods, and he and Porthos sit back. She reaches out to Aramis, tugging hopefully on his hair with the hand she still has there, and he smiles in relief, crawling up her body and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. She tastes herself in his mouth, and she sighs, stroking his hair back from his face and tracing her thumbs across his eyebrows. "That was wonderful," she murmurs. "Thank you."

He grins and presses a kiss to the tip of her nose, his smile easing into something sweeter when she giggles. "We were afraid we'd broken you," he says.

She snorts, and she'd toss her hair if it weren't spread out on the pillows around her. "Please."

He ducks his head slightly, like a bow. "I apologize for underestimating you, my dear." He kisses her again, then smiles down at her. "What would you like us to do for you now?"

She bites her lip and laughs. She has some ideas, but she has no idea how to ask them for it. "There are _so_ many things. I feel like I want _everything."_

Porthos laughs. "No need to do everything," he points out, smiling at her and Aramis when they look up at him. "Save some for next time, eh?"

"Next time?" d'Artagnan laughs.

Porthos grins at him. "Oh, I'm sorry--did you all think this was gonna be a one-time thing? Because I definitely didn't."

It startles them all for a moment, even Porthos, who in the second the words leave his mouth looks like he can't believe he just said that. Constance hadn't considered it at all. She'd barely thought they'd be lucky enough to get just tonight. Tomorrow had seemed ludicrous to even think about. 

She looks up at d'Artagnan, and he looks just as thrown as she feels. But this feels so _good,_ the five of them all here together, and it _works,_ doesn't it? Everyone seems happy, and she feels better understood than she has in her entire life. Where else could they go from here but on, together? From the look on Aramis and Porthos' faces, the swift glance they share, they both _want,_ the same way she and d'Artagnan want. She's almost afraid to look at Athos, because if he doesn't look like he can do this, it might kill her--now that she knows she can have this, she doesn't know how she'll ever give it up.

"I'd like that," Athos says from the other side of the bed. They all look over, surprised, to see him divesting himself of his clothes at last. His jacket and shirt are in a pile with his boots on the floor, and when he looks up at them, clad in just his trousers, there's something open, almost vulnerable on his face. And Constance realizes--he's letting them see him.

She's so proud of him, her heart nearly breaks. 

Athos smiles slightly, almost shyly, and d'Artagnan, with that beautiful instinct of his, holds out his hand. Athos takes it, glancing almost nervously to Porthos and Aramis, but when he sees them gazing at him with utter love plain on their faces, he relaxes. His smile widens, becoming more sure, and Constance feels like they've just crossed a very important line, all together.

Athos looks down at her, and he seems calmer, somehow, everything in him easier, free. "Well, then, Constance," he says, inclining his head slightly, "I suppose the better question is, what would you like us to do for you _tonight?"_

She grins at him. It feels easier to ask, now. "I want to see the three of you together," she says, sitting up and leaning back against d'Artagnan's chest, as he wraps his arms around her. She does, she really does, and it seems perfect for right now--she needs to recover a bit, and she wants to give Athos something familiar, since he just did something fairly momentous for them.

His eyes flash to hers, and at a glance, she knows, he sees all her reasons for it. Something impossibly grateful floods up in the depths of that bright blue, and she smiles at him. He smiles back, then looks across to Aramis and Porthos. "Gentlemen?"

They beam at him, reaching out, and Athos moves into their arms like coming home. He kisses Porthos, then Aramis, and the three of them slide against each other in perfect sync, trading kisses and touches like a dance. 

D'Artagnan sighs in her ear, and Constance nods, relaxing against him. It's gorgeous. It really is. They seem so comfortable, confident, and when Athos tips his head back, letting out a gentle moan as Aramis kisses his neck and Porthos his cheek, she sighs, too. "He _is_ beautiful when he lets himself go," she says to d'Artagnan, remembering what he'd said.

D'Artagnan laughs, and he presses a kiss to her neck. "I did tell you." She can feel him hard against her backside, but there's no urgency. They're both perfectly comfortable just to sit together, watching this lovely display.

"I have an idea," Aramis announces as Athos kisses a line across his shoulders. 

Porthos laughs. "When don't you?" he says, cupping the back of Aramis' neck and pressing their foreheads together for a moment.

Athos snorts out a breath, the first sound approximating a laugh Constance has ever heard from him, and his eyes are soft as he rests his chin on Aramis' shoulder. "What did you have in mind?"

Aramis shrugs lazily, reaching up and back to card his fingers through Athos' hair, even as he looks up and gives Porthos what Constance can only describe as a come-hither look. "Fuck me?" he says, and Porthos' eyes go dark and hot. Aramis tilts his head slightly, rubbing his cheek against Athos. "And you can watch. I might even suck your cock if you ask me nicely."

Athos' hand slides up and fists in Aramis' hair, and Aramis gasps in obvious delight as Athos yanks his head back. Athos presses a biting, openmouthed kiss to Aramis' throat, and Constance would be a little startled at the sudden ferocity if she couldn't see Aramis' eyes flutter shut in pleasure, watch his hips rock up against Porthos. Porthos watches the two of them, a wicked smile playing around his lips.

"How about," Athos suggests, his tone deadly, "he fucks you, and when you're gagging for it, I very _nicely_ \--" He punctuates the word with another tug on Aramis' hair. _"Allow_ you to suck my cock?"

Aramis grins. "That works for me, too," he agrees breathlessly, and Athos and Porthos exchange affectionate eyerolls before spilling Aramis down into the sheets.

Athos throws a few pillow behind himself and reclines back on them like a king, watching as Porthos kisses a line down Aramis' chest. He glances over at Constance and d'Artagnan, and, after making sure Aramis is too distracted by Porthos, flashes a smile at them. Constance relaxes slightly, but it's still a little bit of a startling shift, and Athos notices. He gives her a reassuring little nod, then raises his voice. "Aramis," he says, and he sounds almost _bored,_ they could be in the practice yard, for all he sounds interested, "Constance and d'Artagnan look slightly concerned. Do you want to tell them how much you like this?"

 _"Yes,"_ Aramis says, and he shudders as Porthos strips him of his trousers and smallclothes. He's beautiful, stretched out naked on the sheets, and he knows it, from the way he arches for them, eyes heavy-lidded in the candlelight. "I _really_ like it, Athos."

"Details, Aramis," Athos drawls, still sounding bored, but the care and affection in his eyes warms Constance through and through.

Aramis smiles, closing his eyes as Porthos' hands smooth over his sweat-damp skin. "I like it when you pull my hair," he sighs, reaching out and settling his hands on Porthos' shoulders. He sounds like he's reciting a prayer, for how soft and devoted his voice is. "I like it when you tell me what you're going to do to me. I like it when I don't have to work for it, when you just use me and I know you'll take care of me. I like it when I'm so beautifully begging for it that neither of you can help giving it to me as rough as I need." He smiles as Porthos kisses his jaw, and he opens his eyes to smile at him. "I like it when _you,"_ he says, framing Porthos' face with his hands, "get me wound-up and desperate for him, and then I get to have both of you." He tilts his head back and flashes an upside-down grin at d'Artagnan and Constance. "This whole thing was my idea, you know."

They both laugh, and Constance smiles at him. "We should have guessed."

"Naturally," Aramis says with infuriating complacency, and he laughs when Porthos whacks him in the shoulder. "I'm excellent at solving everyone's problems through sex."

"You're excellent at making more problems for everyone with sex, I think you mean," Porthos says, but there's no rancor in it. He slaps Aramis on the thigh. "Hands and knees, then, if you want to be talking to them while I'm trying to fuck you."

"It would be rude to ignore our bedfellows," Aramis protests, but he's grinning as he scrambles up onto his hands and knees.

"Speaking of, we're not neglecting you, are we, Athos?" Constance says, glancing over to where he's lounging a foot or so away.

He smiles and shakes his head. "I'm perfectly content, thank you." He's plainly hard in his trousers, but one of his hands is behind his head, the other beside his leg, and he does, in fact, look perfectly content. "Aramis enjoys being watched. I enjoy watching. Porthos enjoys the heavy lifting." Porthos grins at him, and Athos smiles back. "We do very well together."

"We haven't had anyone to gang up on, though," Porthos says thoughtfully, as he leans back to snag the bottle of oil from the side of the bed. "And you know we love working together. So I think this--" He jerks his head in a way that includes all five of them. "Is going to work out fine."

Aramis ducks his head between his arms and laughs--a laugh that turns into a sudden moan as Porthos' oil-slick fingers slip between his legs. "Perfect pentagon," Aramis chokes, his shoulders shaking.

"Do you two have a good enough view?" Porthos asks solicitously, flashing the devil's own grin at Constance and d'Artagnan.

Constance bites her lip and nods, feeling a totally new kind of flush start up and race along her skin. She's never watched anyone else like this--it took two weeks with d'Artagnan before she'd even watch him touch himself--and she feels a clenching, twisting desire low in her stomach. D'Artagnan's hands smooth along her ribs, one of his arms wrapping around her as the other hand slides down her waist to rest on her thigh. She leans back into him, and he rests his head on her shoulder so he can watch better. 

Aramis is moaning continuously before long, rocking his hips back onto Porthos' hand. He started making sounds, low and shaky, like he just couldn't help himself, when Porthos added a second finger, and his hair hangs damp around his face as he drops his head and pants. _"Porthos,"_ he groans, dragging the word out to four syllables, and Constance is going to draw blood if she keeps biting her lip.

"Yes, love?" Porthos says, bright and cheerful, and he twists his wrist. 

Aramis lets out a stream of something in Latin that has to be absolutely vile, from the badly-concealed look of amusement on Athos' face. "I didn't know you knew Catullus, Aramis," he says, his voice rich with suppressed laughter. "And at any rate, you're wrong; that's what we're about to do to _you."_

"Then get _on_ with it," Aramis growls, dropping his head to the mattress.

"Something to do with fucking, I'm going to guess," d'Artagnan says, his hands stroking up and down Constance's arms.

"Catullus 16," Athos says. "I'll show you later. Porthos?"

He hums out a questioning sound, not taking his eyes from the trembling lines of Aramis' back.

"Get on with it."

Porthos grins at him. "Whatever you say." He spills a little more oil on his fingers, then shoves them back into Aramis with little ceremony. Aramis gasps, his mouth curling into a smile, and he rocks back into Porthos' touch. "You're so fucking easy," Porthos teases him, and his arm flexes, spreading his fingers, Constance assumes, from the way Aramis' back arches and he _whines,_ squeezing his eyes shut.

It's one of the most painfully erotic things Constance has ever seen. She pushes back into d'Artagnan, just a little, because she can't help it, and his hands drop to her waist. He holds her steady, rolling his hips against hers, just once, and she reaches down to cover his hand with hers. She squeezes his hand, once, and he squeezes her hip in response. 

Aramis is watching them from under his eyelashes, she realizes when she focuses on him again. Even panting as he is, eyes hazy, he's focused on his partners--all of them. "Am I putting on a good enough show?" he asks breathlessly. Porthos slides his free hand up Aramis' spine to curl in his hair and tug his head back, and Aramis arches again, his back a beautiful curve. "I can do more, if you'd like."

"We like the real you, Aramis," Constance says without thinking. "You don't need to try and impress us."

"Especially not at a time like this," d'Artagnan adds, his breath sending a shiver down Constance's spine.

Aramis laughs, breathless again, and his arms are trembling as he holds himself up. "In that case," he says, pushing his head up into Porthos' hand, "would anyone mind if I stopped paying quite so much attention?"

"We never do," Porthos assures him, his hand in Aramis' hair turning gentle for just a moment before he closes his fist and yanks, hard.

Aramis groans, sounding almost relieved, and Constance _sees_ the moment when he completely surrenders to Porthos' touch. He stops considering the angles, the way it looks for them, and just arches into Porthos, shivering with need. "Yes," he chants, "yes, yes, yes, Porthos, please--"

"I know," Porthos says, and his hand is moving steadily, now. He sounds perfectly collected, but Constance can see his face, can see the way he closes his eyes and breathes, trying to keep himself under control. Porthos is the caretaker. "I know, I've got you."

"You always do," Aramis murmurs, twisting his hands in the sheets. Porthos hits something, then, that makes him jerk, and Aramis makes a startled _huh_ sound, his eyes flying open and his face going slack with need. "Porthos," he says, like it's the only word he knows. Constance presses back against d'Artagnan again, and he lets out a little sigh, his arm sliding around her waist and holding her to his chest.

Porthos presses a kiss to Aramis' back. "Just a little more." 

Aramis drops onto his forearms, moaning, and pushes back onto his hand. "Now," he says, his voice rough and unsteady. "Please?"

Porthos groans, a sound that Constance and d'Artagnan both echo. He's even more beautiful like this than he was when he was trying to be--he's totally given over to his own need. "God, you're gonna kill me," Porthos says, closing his eyes. His hand stills for a moment, and Aramis _whimpers._

Constance can't take it anymore. She arches back against d'Artagnan, desperately wanting, and he clutches at her in response, and they're together in this as they are in everything else. His hips jerk against her, the worn leather of the trousers he's still wearing scraping against her skin in a wonderful sort of way, and Constance sighs, worrying at her lip with her teeth because it's not _enough._ She knows just how Aramis feels right now.

"Would you _both,"_ Athos grinds out, his voice sounding like his throat's been scraped raw, and Constance looks over to see him with a hand pressed firmly to the hard line of his cock, "just _do it,_ for God's sake."

Porthos laughs breathlessly, curling his body along Aramis', and Constance thinks _both?_ before d'Artagnan shifts away from her and starts scrambling out of his pants. _Oh,_ she realizes, and helps him frantically, both of their hands fumbling at leather and linen. It's barely the work of a moment before they've resumed their positions, her sitting in his lap, back pressed to his chest so they both can still watch, only _this_ time his bare cock is pressed against her backside and she's rocking against him.

Porthos pulls away from Aramis just long enough to get his own clothes out of the way, too. Aramis presses his face into the mattress, making a bereft sound, and it's so almost _sweet_ that Constance has no idea how any of them can take any more of this. 

"It's okay," Porthos says, running a reassuring hand over Aramis' back, "it's okay, I'm still here." Aramis lets out another soft sound and arches up into his touch, and Porthos reaches back for more oil. Constance tries not to stare too openly as he slicks up his cock--she's already making a list of everything she wants to do next time--but she doesn't blush when he catches her at it and flashes her a teasing smile. She's not sure she could blush even if she could feel ashamed about this; she doesn't really have any blood left above her waist. She's never been so aroused in her life; she didn't know it was _possible_ to feel so hot, so tender and exposed and _needy._

She shifts her legs under herself so she can push up onto her knees a bit, and d'Artagnan moves, without her even needing to ask. His hand slides around the curve of her arse, and his fingers stop just shy of her sex. "Okay?" he asks, and presses a kiss to the tender flesh behind her ear.

She nods, reaching down and pushing his fingers up. He laughs, his breath on the back of her neck sending a frisson of energy shooting down her spine to curl in her stomach, and he slides his fingers into her, his touch so familiar, so careful. He's testing to see if she's still too sensitive, too raw, and she turns her face into his neck, panting. It's not too much--it's not _enough._ "Come on," she breathes.

D'Artagnan groans, and he nods, his nose tracing the back of her neck. She shivers and reaches back for him to steady herself, getting up on her knees a little more, and he shifts against her, on his knees, too, the tops of his thighs brushing the backs of hers.

She looks back at Aramis and Porthos, then, because she wants to do this with them. Porthos is watching--waiting, very courteously, for them to be ready, and Aramis is still face-down in the mattress, shaking, waiting for Porthos. Athos is watching _everyone,_ and she's never seen him look so tense. 

Anticipation steals her breath.

On some silent signal, Porthos and d'Artagnan both _move,_ and Constance and Aramis cry out together. 

She knows d'Artagnan, knows his body the way he knows hers, but this is different--they've never done it this way, on their knees and facing the same way so they can both watch the show. And this way, his cock brushes up against that place Aramis found earlier, and every motion sends such a pulse of pleasure through her that she can hardly stand it.

And Aramis is _moaning,_ low and long and needy, braced on his forearms and rocking back with every one of Porthos' short, sharp thrusts. His head comes up slightly, and his dark eyes are glazed, almost dizzy with desire. Porthos' hands tighten on his hips, not letting Aramis move any more than Porthos wants him to, and Aramis' moans kick up an octave in pitch and volume.

D'Artagnan swears, driving his hips up into Constance harder, and she leans back, letting him take most of her weight, every one of his thrusts punching a high, breathless sound from her. It's perfect. Fuck, it's fucking perfect. 

It's a little strange, almost, that after all they've done tonight, all that she wanted tonight to be, it's her and d'Artagnan again at the end of it--but they aren't the same people they were at the start of the night. She's seen him in ways she's never seen him before, they both know things the other likes they never did before, and here with Athos, Aramis, and Porthos, everything's heightened, more open and more wild and more alive. 

They're all so keyed up that it's not long before Aramis is trembling, his shoulders tensing as he tries to force himself back onto Porthos' cock. Constance is right there with him, her thighs shuddering with the effort of lifting herself up and down, and she can feel d'Artagnan's breath coming rough as the two of them move together, slick with sweat.

"Athos," Aramis chokes out, the first word any of them have spoken in what feels like ages. He can't reach out to him, he needs both hands to brace himself, but he looks up, straining towards him. "Athos, come _here_ \--"

Athos doesn't make him wait, pushing himself up at once and crawling across the sheets, and Constance gasps in the same moment Aramis does--it's like they're the same person, all of them, the same needs and desires and connection flowing through them, and if Aramis needs Athos' touch, then so does she. 

She holds on to d'Artagnan, feeling herself clench around him as Athos pulls Aramis up into his arms and kisses him. Aramis falls against Athos' chest, letting Athos hold him up as Porthos fucks him, letting Athos' mouth muffle his soft cries. Athos reaches around him, his hand fumbling until he finds Porthos', tight on Aramis' hip, and the two of them twine their fingers together, squeezing hard for a moment. 

D'Artagnan shakes against her, dropping his forehead to her shoulder, and she can feel him fighting not to come. She's feeling the same thing, because somehow it's just these little touches of devotion that are pushing her closer and closer to the edge. She lets out another desperate sound, pushing down against d'Artagnan and staying there, just trying to hold on, and at the sound of her voice Athos pulls back from Aramis, at last looking like his famous self-control has gone.

Aramis holds onto him, chases his lips, looking half-drunk with it. "Athos, _please,_ I want--"

"I know," Athos gasps, stroking a hand down his back. "I know, I know. You've done so well." He kisses Aramis again as his hand traces down Aramis' spine.

He slips his fingers down, to where Porthos is still working his hips steadily against Aramis. And she can't see, exactly, but she knows, she _knows_ that he pushes a finger in alongside Porthos' cock, because Porthos gasps and swears and Aramis' whole body convulses. Aramis makes a broken sound, his fingers digging into Athos' skin. "A- _Athos,"_ he gasps, clinging to him.

Athos kisses his hair. "Someday," he says, voice heavy like a promise, and the sound that wrenches out of both Aramis and Porthos nearly makes her come on the spot.

It's Porthos' turn to say Athos' name like a prayer. As Aramis buries his face in Athos' neck, Athos leans forward and Porthos presses himself all along Aramis' back, reaching out one hand to cup the back of Athos' neck and drag him forward into a kiss. They hold Aramis suspended between them, all three of them pressed so closely together there can't be a breath of air between their skin.

D'Artagnan wraps his arm around her chest, holding her as close to him as they are to each other, and she covers his arm with hers, turning to press her face to his. She feels all the love in the room, the tenderness, like a physical presence. It's so good she thinks she could drown in it.

"Come on," Porthos breathes against Athos' lips when they finally break apart. "None of us are gonna last much longer."

"No," Athos agrees, his voice unsteady for the first time. He pulls back slightly from Aramis, who actually cries out again, reaching for him with a desperation that tears at Constance's heart. Athos soothes him with a touch, and guides Aramis' fumbling hands down to the ties of his trousers. Aramis actually _sobs_ with relief, drawing Athos' hard and dripping cock out with shaking hands. d'Artagnan and Constance swear in one voice and start moving again, fucking each other with a single-minded intensity. It's a race to the end now.

Athos sits back on his heels, gently guiding Aramis back down onto his hands and knees, needing Porthos' help to keep Aramis balanced. Aramis is having none of their gentleness, though--he knocks both of their hands aside and rocks forward almost instantly to get Athos' cock in his mouth.

Athos grits his teeth, his head falling back, and Constance realizes in a flash that _this_ is what he looked like when d'Artagnan was sucking him off--that one little image that started this whole thing, that sparked this need in her that's led them here--and she nearly cries, dragging d'Artagnan's hand down to rub at her clit. She needs it, needs it _now,_ and luckily they're all in the same state, losing all finesse as they just descend into _needing_ each other.

It's magnificent to watch, to be a part of. Athos' breath comes in tiny, controlled pants, his hands tight in Aramis' hair. Aramis looks like he's someplace else entirely, his eyes closed and an exalted expression on his face as he just rocks between Athos and Porthos with the force of Porthos' thrusts. Porthos watches the two of them, focused on them like they're the sole center of the universe. 

And Constance and d'Artagnan are lost together, drawn into the three of them like moths to flame, only it's the best kind of burning up--she's never felt like _herself_ more than she does now, burning away everything that she used to be, the life she never wanted, leaving only this life with them. She wanted everything about tonight.

She _chose_ tonight. She _chooses_ all of them.

Constance closes her eyes and shakes apart in d'Artagnan's arms. White lightning races up from where he is, touching every place that she's never been touched before, and every muscle in her body spasms for one long, perfect moment. She clenches down around him so hard it almost hurts, and turns her head to catch him in a kiss. He cups her cheek in one hand, breathing through clenched teeth as he fucks her through it, and it's only when she relaxes in his arms that he drives his hips up into her one, two, three more times and lets himself come. 

Both of them shake with aftershocks as they look back at their other three lovers. Athos watches them, the blue of his eyes only the thinnest ring around blown pupils, looking more open than she's ever seen him, all the pain and grief that he normally carries in those sad eyes gone, and Constance smiles at him. 

Athos holds her gaze for as long as he can, only closing his eyes when it's too much and he has to buck up into Aramis' mouth, falling back into the sheets and gasping. Aramis lets out a shivering moan around him, his throat working as he swallows, and Porthos folds his body along Aramis' back, cradling Aramis in his arms as he loses his rhythm.

Porthos pants into Aramis' shoulder blades as he comes, brushing his lips across the taut, sweat-streaked skin like a kiss. Aramis is the last one to come, with Porthos holding him close and Athos petting his hair, and Constance thinks he blacks out for a moment, from the way he goes utterly slack in Porthos' arms, his face pressed to Athos' hip and a soft sound sighing from his mouth.

D'Artagnan gathers Constance up in his arms, both of them loose-limbed and overwhelmed, and he guides her down to the bed beside Athos, sprawling beside her with an arm thrown over her side to catch clumsily at Athos' proffered hand. Porthos eases Aramis to Athos' chest, pulling away from him slowly and carefully, so very tenderly, then curls down on Athos' other side.

No one speaks as they all catch their breath. It's more important just to be close, because in the aftermath, it's almost like she can feel the bond between them growing stronger. She'd expected, at the start of the night, that they were going to need to have long conversations, negotiate the way this was going to fit, but she hadn't counted on them all fitting together so _naturally._

They're still going to need to talk about a lot of things, she knows, because that's what you have to do in relationships with _two_ people, let alone five--but right now? Right now, they can lie together, all of them, and just breathe, just _be._

 _Perfect,_ she thinks again. 

"So," Aramis says, turning his head on Athos' chest so he's looking at Constance and d'Artagnan. He looks sleepy and sated and somehow easy, in a way she's never seen him before, and he reaches out for her hand. Aramis presses a sloppy, off-center kiss to her knuckles, and Athos lets out a soft sound that is almost _definitely_ a chuckle. Porthos does laugh, stroking a hand across Aramis' back and looking fondly down at them all, and he seems more relaxed than she's ever seen him, too.

"So," Constance says. She nestles down between Athos and d'Artagnan, and on a purely mischievous impulse, tweaks Aramis' beard.

He grins at her, then sighs, settling down against Athos and pulling Porthos' arm over him like a cloak. Porthos rests his hand over d'Artagnan and Athos' twined fingers. "Good?" Porthos asks, and Constance knows it's a general question for everyone. That single word contains a world of emotion.

"Good," d'Artagnan sighs happily, tucking himself along Constance's back. Of course he answers first. It's always so simple for him--he's never afraid to give himself wholly.

He gives her the courage to live that way, too, and Constance smiles, twisting to press a gentle kiss to his lips. "Good," she says, looking back at Porthos and nodding, so he knows she's sure. So they all know she's sure. She never wants to go back to the way things were.

From the smiles on all their faces, she knows they understand.

"Good," Aramis says then into Athos' collarbone and Constance's fingers. "Better if someone would pass the wine."

"No one wants to move to indulge your hedonism," Athos says. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "Good."

Porthos nods, smiling. "Good. Anything pressing we need to talk about before we cuddle up and nap for a bit?"

Constance stretches, feeling happier than she can ever remember feeling. She's safe, but it's not the boring, heartbreaking safety of her life before, a stifling cage that made her feel like she couldn't breathe. It's the safety of feeling trusted, respected, protected. 

She still feels like she's thrown herself off a ledge. But instead of falling, she's flying.

"Can you all move in?" she sighs, pressing her face into Athos' shoulder and pulling d'Artagnan's arm tighter around herself. "I vote we keep the big bed on the floor."

"There's an idea," Aramis says, already sounding half-asleep. "It'll be cold in winter, though."

"We could move it closer to the fire," Porthos muses.

"More blankets," d'Artagnan yawns into Constance's back.

"Sleeping," Athos says firmly, shifting until his face is pressed to Constance's hair.

And it isn't long before they all are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Catullus 16.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catullus_16)


End file.
